


mise en abyme

by QuickYoke



Category: Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Study, Oneshot, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4339214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect she should have recognised all the signs immediately. A character study on alpha Claire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mise en abyme

 

> _mise en abyme_ – French, lit. “suspended in the abyss” See also _Droste Effect._

 

 

* * *

 

 

> “The man has a theory. The woman has hipbones. Here comes Death.”
> 
> – Anne Carson, _Decreation_
> 
>  

* * *

 

Heave of the fuselage. Then the sensation of falling. Far below the tree-ferns nod in the wind, and Claire swallows down her last unsettled cup of coffee pitching in her stomach.

Over the roar of the blades, she can barely hear herself think let alone hear Masrani’s latest fascination. His words are sliced in mid-air, chopped into bytes through the headset. He’s going on about how _real_ they are. How _alive_. It takes her a moment to realise what he’s talking about.

“All you have to do is look into their eyes to see it, Claire,” he shouts as he jerks the controls.

Of course it’s about dinosaurs.

Gulping down a breath to bite her tongue as much as to keep her breakfast in one place, Claire grits her teeth and waits for touchdown.

 

* * *

 

He’s right.

She hates to admit it. Always has.

 

* * *

 

There are so many she has encountered before, yet none at all. They are stationary on paper, on screen, on hologram. Somehow for her the facsimile has never suspended disbelief. Her job is to hoist belief into the air while keeping both feet planted firmly on the ground.

But this is her first in the flesh. Without glass.

Stretched out across the earth, the beast is dying. Its great belly pants and glistens with fresh wounds, and already Owen is rushing to its side. Claire stumbles on uneven ground. Its every leathery breath shivers warm and restless in her approach; she eyes it warily.

On his knees Owen strokes the ridges of its brow and murmurs soft things like a parent might. Mouth in a line, Claire crouches across him – mothering is the last thing on her mind. _Always is_ , Karen would say.

Something like pleading or barbed guilt runs from Owen’s eyes when he glances up at her. So with a steeled nerve Claire reaches out, Karen’s snide remarks a skipped needle over vinyl. The soundtrack of her life’s efforts.

The dinosaur rears its head at her first hesitant touch, and for a moment at the long cliffside of death it looks at her and it’s _alive_.

Beneath her diaphragm the gut-deep wrench pulls like a stone and it feels like falling. Falling –

Lurching backwards Claire averts her gaze as it expires at last. His face downturned, Owen’s lips move at the corner of her eye in a prayer for the dead. The talons of her heels sink into the soft grasses as she stumbles to her feet. Claire swallows and prays for steady earth.

 

* * *

 

“Shh!”

His hand is outstretched and he’s not looking at her, his attention elsewhere.

She bristles.

“I’m not one of your damn animals!”

He looks at her then and has the gall to do it with surprise.

 

* * *

 

The butt of the rifle fits snugly into the hollow of her shoulder. On her tongue the acrid taste of gunpowder is chased by Owen’s mouth.

When he pulls away he’s grinning at her, flushed and nearly awed, and she feels her footing slip.

A tug at the synthetic stock in her hands, and Claire tightens her grip. His expression turns to puzzlement when she doesn’t release the firearm at once. It feels too much like a lifeline and she needs buoyancy now.

With a tight jaw she forces her fingers to uncurl, to let go.

 

* * *

 

Flickers of black and live verdant things across the screen and she wants to set her teeth in it.

Claire never knew she had hackles until they raised, the fine prickle of hairs down the back of her neck. She doesn’t need to hear Owen’s explanation, doesn’t need to understand those guttural clicks and chirps to recognise language.

It’s talking. Red dots on a white hide. The soldiers are just standing there with weapons raised, and it’s _talking_.

Fingers scrambling for the comms – some warning, any warning – but it’s too late. They’re lost.

 

* * *

 

They are trapped in the square, surrounded, claws on all sides. The raptors are closing in, sure as a storm, sure as lightning therein.

Behind her Claire can feel Gray’s grasp trembling against her forearm. His blunted fingernails clutch at her skin, pinch. Meanwhile Zach tries on bravery like a too-tight shirt, and Owen has his hands raised in that pacifying gesture she can’t stand. It makes her eye tick.

One of them – the blue-backed one – hisses and lowers its head the way a lion does when it stalks prey through the tall grasses, and suddenly Claire has had enough.

She doesn’t understand exactly what possesses her except that she’s had a very long day, and the snarl drops from her.  “Don’t you _dare!”_

Her words are venom and ice and as one all the raptors flinch.

Owen sounds nervous as he starts to say, “Probably not a good idea –” when the Indominus crashes into the clearing. He shoots Claire a look like she’s the one lowering them all into early graves, but he doesn’t question it when the raptors turn to their side. None of them do.

 

* * *

 

–Not enough teeth. That strikes her as odd; she’s clenching her teeth until her jaw clicks and aches. Until she realises what Gray actually means.

Ducking through the papier mâché paraphernalia booth she sprints past the two dinosaurs battling in the square. She only has to swerve once to avoid the scrape of a tail. When you have a raptor clawing your flank, it must be difficult to notice a mouse skittering at your feet.

“Open paddock 9!” she barks.

Lowery’s incredulity crackles through the speaker. Claire doesn’t know exactly what she growls at him in return, but it’s enough to make the gate grind open without further complaint.

In one fist the flare scratches red and bright and hot. Sparks sting her wrist. Before her the great lizard rears up to its full height and towers like a wyrm from legend. Something ephemeral transpires there. Something wrenching and familiar and awash all in red.

When Claire turns to run – feet on the ground, pounding, leading – the Tyrannosaurus Rex doesn’t chase. It follows.

 

* * *

 

The first time Claire ever sees the Indominus she is clad all in white. Less like a bride and more like a shroud. They swing the steer carcass in, and her eyes scan the dense brush for movement. In this transparent box she feels trapped between two mirrors, descending into the void.

It hasn’t learned to camouflage itself yet. Or perhaps it’s waiting to reveal that, cloaking its secrets like a shade, speaking only when plied with troughs of lamb’s blood.

In retrospect she should have recognised all the signs immediately. How it uncoils from the foliage. How it ignores the offering suspended on meat hooks. How it looms, raising itself up to study her in her own cage. How its reflection gleams pale, white, symmetrical, and how she catches a glimpse at the same time she catches herself thinking with such clarity –

_–Like looking into glass._

**Author's Note:**

> gotta flex that purple prose every now and then


End file.
